“Do you not see that all your festival is likely to be a failure?”—“I must arrange it again to-morrow.”—“Have you not recognized me?”—“Yes, I have seen you before in Catania.”—“And you are not afraid of the jettatore?”—“Yes, formerly, as a child.”—“But now, now are you not afraid?” She avoided answering him. “Are you yourself afraid?” she said. “Speak the truth!” he said, impatiently. “What did you wish to say to me when you brought me here?”
She looked anxiously about her. She had to say something; she must have something to answer him. Then a thought occurred to her which seemed to her quite terrible. She looked at the Christ-image. “Do you require it?” she seemed to ask him. “Shall I do it for this strange man? But it is throwing away my only hope.”
“I hardly know whether I dare to speak of what I wish of you,” she said. “No, you see; you do not dare.”—“I intend to build a railway; you know that?”—“Yes, I know.”—“I want you to help me.”—“I?”
Now that she had made a beginning, it was easier for her to continue. She was surprised that her words sounded so natural.
“I know that you are a railroad builder. Yes, you understand of course that with my railroad no pay is given. But it would be better for you to help me work than to sit shut in here. You are making no use of your time.”
He looked at her almost sternly. “Do you know what you are saying?”—“It is of course a presumptuous request.”—“Just so, yes, a presumptuous request.”
Thereupon the poor man began to try to terrify her.
“It will go with your railway as with your festival.” Donna Micaela thought so too, but now she thought that she had closed all ways of escape for herself; now she must go on being good. “My festival will soon be in full swing,” she said calmly.
“Listen to me, Donna Micaela,” said the man. “The last thing a man ceases to believe good of is himself. No one can cease to have hope for himself.”
“No; why should he?”